


Some Holes Just Want to Be Filled

by RocksHaveUrgesToo



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst and Porn, Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Help, How Do I Tag, Light Angst, M/M, basically all the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-16 17:01:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16499267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RocksHaveUrgesToo/pseuds/RocksHaveUrgesToo
Summary: After defeating the dragon together in their eighth year at Watford, Simon is keen to find out what else he and Baz can accomplish by sharing their magic. Baz is hesitant, knowing the close contact with his roommate/nemesis/unrequited crush will put his self-control to the test.





	1. I Don't Believe You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fanfic, and constructive criticism is appreciated!
> 
> I'm preemptively giving it a "mature" rating, even though the first couple of chapters will be more on the PG-side. Later chapters will feature the erotic gropefest Baz (and the world) deserves, I promise.

  _I had a dream and you were in it_  
_The blue of your eyes was infinite_  
_You seemed to be_  
_In love with me  
_ _Which isn’t very realistic..._

  **BAZ**

 "I wonder if you can give me your magic."

 He's lying on his back in his bed, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

 I'm sitting on my bed, a few feet away, attempting to complete a History assignment before bed. Also, trying not to let my gaze linger overlong on where his shirt has ridden up to expose a pale, freckled hipbone. I squeeze my eyes shut and rake a hand through my hair.

 "Give it a rest already, Snow," I say with mild exasperation.

 He rolls onto his side, facing me, and props himself up on one elbow.

 "But it's brilliant! Aren't you curious to figure out how it works? No one's ever done anything like this before."

 "You're the world's most powerful mage. What would you even _do_ with more magic? Besides misfiring a spell and turning all of Watford into an apocalyptic wasteland, probably."

 He frowns. "It's not like I'm being greedy. I just thought it would be cool if it went both directions. I might be stronger than you, but you’ve got better control. What if you could help me focus my spells, or put a damper on when I'm about to go off?"

 He's staring hopefully at me, and I scowl back at him out of habit. Ever since we declared a truce for the sake of finding my mother's killer, and then fought off a dragon together by channeling Snow's power through me, relations between us have been practically... congenial. It's unsettling to the extreme, which is why I make a concerted effort to antagonize him whenever the opportunity presents itself. Can't have him getting complacent, after all.

 

**SIMON**

 He's glaring at me in typical Baz fashion, but I can tell he's mulling it over. He's so wishy washy about sharing magic with me, I just don't get it. It's not like it hurts him- he says it makes him feel invincible. And if we figure out how to use it properly, I really think it could turn the tide against the Humdrum.

 The way the universe keeps throwing Baz and me together is starting to feel like a bad joke that's gone on several years too long. First the Crucible doomed us to eight years of squabbling and sniping when it made us roommates at Watford. Now I've finally discovered a way to use my magic without causing a bloody great catastrophe, and it depends on the cooperation of the one person who gets a sadistic sort of amusement from watching me fail.

 Penny'd go mad for the chance to share power with me, but the only time we tried she said it was like trying to hold on to a fistful of dry ice. I doubt Agatha would even want to make an attempt, even if we were still together and not on the outs, like we are right now.

 I’m not really sure who else I _could_ try this with. I haven’t got many close friends at Watford, and it’s hard to imagine turning to Gareth in Elocution class and saying _“Hey there, mate, I know I once set your tie on fire, but what say we try using you as a conduit for my extremely unstable magic and hope it doesn’t result in any permanent damage?”_ The Mage would probably be up for trying. _If_ he were ever around anymore.

 I wish I knew why it’s so different with Baz. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the strongest in our year (aside from me, of course), or that the possibility of hurting him doesn’t concern me like it probably should. (He’s every bit as aggravating as he is powerful, and then some.) Maybe he’s built up a stronger tolerance for my magic than most, the way I’ve built up a tolerance for his casual hostility. Why does it have to be Baz?

 As though thinking his name summons his attention, I hear Baz let out a theatrical sigh as he sets his schoolwork aside and brushes nonexistent dust from his perfectly pressed trousers. "Alright, Snow. Let's test this theory of yours."

 

**BAZ**

 Snow practically leaps up to stand in the space between our beds, facing mine. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet and rubbing his hands together, his face split into a wide grin.

 I eye his display of enthusiasm with distaste, my lip curling. “Forget it. I changed my mind.”

 The grin evaporates and he starts to sputter. “Baz, come on! Don’t be a prat, for once!”

 “Do you even comprehend what it is you’re asking of me, Snow? You want us to disregard seven years of seething animosity so we can… _join forces_ like some sort of superhero team? How do you think my family would react to the news that I’m helping the Mage’s bloody Heir get stronger? Do you think they’d go all out and have me assassinated, or get sentimental and just cast me out on the street?” I feel my annoyance building in a vehement crescendo, so I clench my jaws together and cross my arms rigidly across my chest instead.

 Simon rubs the back of his neck, looking abashed. “I don’t think-- I’m not trying to--” He huffs a little in frustration and tries again. “This isn’t about the Pitches, or any of the Old Families. They can have a go at me all they want, alright? _You_ can have a go at me.” He looks over at me with a flash of defiance in his eyes, then looks away and pauses. “Just let me have a go at the Humdrum first. It’s what I’m meant to do. Then, when it’s over, I promise the Grimms and Pitches can fight over whatever’s left of me.”

 He slumps back down onto his bed with his elbows resting on his knees. Neither of us speak for several moments. Then he looks back at me with a rueful smile on his lips. “Besides, from the sound of it, your family would get in a strop if they knew you’d quit actively trying to kill me. What with our alliance and all.”

 

**SIMON**

 He slowly unfolds his long legs, then uses them to pull himself to the edge of his mattress. Baz is all sinewy grace and coiled power, like a jungle cat, and I sort of despise him for it.

 “ _Temporary_ alliance,” he corrects. His tone isn’t malicious, just matter-of-fact. I ignore him.

 “For the duration of our investigation into my mother’s murder,” he continues.

 “Yeah?” Now it’s my turn to sneer. “And then what? You turn around and resume engineering my downfall?”

 He arches a dark brow at me. “Great snakes, Snow, what makes you think I ever stopped? We agreed to a ceasefire where _acts_ of aggression are concerned. I don’t recall any talk of a moratorium on _thoughts_ or _speech_ or any other modes of aggression I’m equally proficient in.”

 I throw up my hands, halfway between irritation and resignation. “Fine, Baz. I’ll help you find out who killed your mum, against my better judgement, and you can carry on being a total knob about it. Merlin help us if you don’t meet your daily insult quota.”

 “You see, Snow? You’re getting the idea.” He pushes himself to his feet and stares down at me, coolly expectant. “Well? Are you going to spend all night whingeing, or are we going to see if this works?”

 

**BAZ**

 I don’t offer my hand to him, just stand by as he scrambles back up to his feet. Our beds are so close together that when he stands in front of me he’s at perfect spitting distance. Not that I’ve ever spit at Simon, nor he at me. I imagine him doing it now, feel an unexpected frisson of desire, and hastily clear my throat. _Tamp that down before the physical evidence presents itself, Basilton._

 He holds up both hands in front of his chest, palms facing me. I glance back and forth incredulously between his hands, then up to his face.

 “You can’t be serious. The first time we did this we managed it with one of your hands on my shoulder.”

 He shrugs. “Sure, but it’s cooler this way, isn’t it? Like we’re enacting some kind of arcane summoning ritual.”

 “I think you’ve been watching too much television.”

 He doesn’t reply, just waggles his fingers at me inanely until I sigh and press my palms against his. He folds his fingers down over the backs of my hands, so I follow suit. It’s not that I don’t _want_ to do this with Simon, it’s that I want it- want _him_ \- far too much to be remotely circumspect. He’s a black hole, and every step further into his gravitational field makes it harder for me to pull away. Crowley knows it’s a misery when we avoid each other outright like we did during sixth year- never meeting eyes, carefully sidestepping each other, barely even speaking when the other was within earshot- but at least it allows me a degree of mental clarity.

 Not like this. Everything about this- standing close enough to feel his body heat, clasping his hands, staring into his bottomless blue eyes- is dangerous.

 

**SIMON**

 “Are you ready?” I ask, and Baz nods. “When I do it, I call my magic to the surface, and then give it a gentle push at the point of contact.”

 He nods again, then closes his eyes and tightens his grip on my hands. I close my eyes as well, and start to visualize a bridge between our palms, a path for his magic to traverse. Then I imagine myself opening for him like a vessel, making room inside myself for his magic. I don’t know what he’s imagining, but after a minute or two of silence I haven’t felt any change.

 I keep my eyes shut. “Anything?”

 “No. I can feel my magic there, but it just feels like I’m pressing against a barrier. I’m afraid if I pushed any harder I might set your hands on fire.”

 “Oh.” I open my eyes and try to smother my disappointment. Baz opens his too, and makes as if to release my hands, but I maintain my grip. “Should we try it in the other direction? To make sure we still can?”

 A brief silence. While he decides on the most cutting reply, most likely. But then all he says is, “Alright.”

 I meet his gaze. Then I draw on my magic until I feel it simmering just beneath my skin. Then I redirect the current up my arms, out through my palms, and into Baz.

 

**BAZ**

 The tingling starts in my fingers and crawls up my wrists and arms, a curiously effervescent sensation like my blood has suddenly become carbonated. Then it hits my head and I’m fucking _floating._

 Simon’s watching me intently. “How does it feel?”

 I feel giddy, intoxicated on the magic swirling inside me. I giggle a little, uncontrollably.

 He cracks a grin. “You’re feeling it, alright. Do you think you can use it to cast?”

 “Yeah, I think so.” I say, slightly breathless. “What do you want me to cast?”

 He purses his lips and studies me, then a faintly wicked smile flashes across his face. “How about **I’m a little teapot**? I’m sure you’d look lovely with a little spout and a floral pattern.”

 I can’t help it. I throw my head back and laugh uproariously. The room around us has gone warm and golden and I want to grab his ridiculous face in my hands and kiss him senseless.

 Instead I just squeeze his hands, too uninhibited to check the wonder in my voice. “You’re a fucking marvel, Simon Snow. I can’t believe you’re walking around with this kind of power on tap, all the time.”

 His smile fades a little at that. “I’m going to pull it back now, okay?”

 And he does. It doesn’t retreat all at once, but the effect is still extremely discombobulating. For a few moments, it seems to leave an empty void behind inside me, before my own magic slides back into place.

 The withdrawal leaves my head spinning. My knees buckle, and in slow motion I feel myself pitch forward until Simon releases my hands and catches me with his palms on my chest. I bring my own hands up to steady myself on his shoulders, and when my vision clears again his face is much, much too close. _Too dangerous._ My whole body is still humming with residual magic, with _his_ magic, and my eyes are filled with his freckles and his breath is puffing softly against my lips and it’s no effort at all- it’s a deliverance, really- to crush my mouth into his and let the black hole finally swallow me up.

 

**SIMON**

 What.

 The fuck.

 Is happening.

 

**BAZ**

 It seems reasonable to assume, given the sudden turn of events, that I am well and truly fucked.

 Up to this point, sharing a room with Simon Snow has been far from ideal for innumerable reasons. He chews with his mouth open and litters the floor of our room with crumbs from the scones he is perpetually squirreling away on his person. He has grooming habits that would make a wild boar feel personally affronted. He suffers from nightmares and yells in his sleep- literally yells.

 I could tolerate these habits- I would, cheerfully!- if he didn’t also make my breath catch when he stretches his arms over his head, his shirt creeping up to reveal a narrow ribbon of flat stomach. And when he plucks mindlessly at his lower lip with his thumb and index finger while deep in concentration. And when he bends his head over a book while sitting at his desk, causing vulnerable-looking knuckles of spine to protrude against the back of his neck.

 Because in truth, I'm pitifully weak. I have to do everything in my power to cut him down, to keep him beneath me, because I know that with the slightest gesture he could bring me to my knees.

 Our entire relationship is a house of cards, and the keystone is Simon Snow's ignorance of the fact that I'm hopelessly in love with him.

 One kiss, and I've done more than topple it; one kiss and the whole fucking thing is going up in flames.

 

**SIMON**

 I suppose I could be having a weird dream. Or, this is some kind of alternate timeline thing where I kiss blokes and Baz isn't a complete twat. I mean, I go to a magic school where I fight dragons and occasionally grow wings and fly. Who's to say what's plausible, really?

 Well, I can think of one thing that isn't, and that's me kissing Baz fucking Pitch.

 I don't... hate it, if I’m being honest. His lips are soft, but kind of muscular at the same time. He's holding my shoulders and his thumbs are kneading the flesh just above my collarbones in a way that's not unpleasant. And up close he smells really, really good. Like fir trees and something else, something faintly dark and sweet.

 He has my upper lip between both of his, like he wants to draw it into his mouth. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond, so I just press my mouth harder against his. I realize I'm holding tightly to the collar of his jacket with both hands- when did that happen?

 He pulls back enough to make a nearly inaudible sound against my lips, like a whispered sigh. Then he tilts his head to the side and kisses me again. This time, I feel his tongue parting my lips. The coolness of it, the wetness, is a shock to my senses.

 I’m sucking face with a vampire.

 With _Baz._

 My eyes fly open and I shove him away.

 

**BAZ**

 Snow's still holding onto my collar, like he's trying to keep me at arm's length. On the bright side, that means he can't throw any punches. I can't rule out the possibility that he'll knee me in the groin, though.

 He's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't figure out (for Snow, that probably means the sort with more than fifty pieces). His brow is furrowed in bewilderment and his lips slightly parted, and I can see a dozen or more questions in his eyes, all jockeying for position to be first out the gate once he recovers his ability to verbalize.

 I have to admit, from Simon's point of view the kiss must seem way out of character for me. I can't remember the last time I caught him off-guard like this. If I _had_ kissed him out of some devious plot to knock his legs out from under him, rather than my own helpless attraction, I’d be positively cackling right now.

 I probably should do. Tug the mask back into place and carry on as adversaries. But I’m shattered from holding on to his magic and my own feelings and all I can do is look at him and long for him and foolishly hope.

 

**SIMON**

 When I tear our lips apart and look at his face, I'm expecting to see him smirking. Or sneering. Or smug. Or some other villainous facial expression that begins with an 's' and is shorthand for "Gotcha, Simon! I kissed you and you _liked_ it!"

 It isn't there, though.

 Baz doesn't blush, exactly. I assume it's a vampire thing how his skin always pale with a slight greyish cast. But now there's color in his cheeks that wasn't there before. And in his lips, which he licks. Like he's hoping to taste mine on them.

 I've never looked into his eyes up close before. I’ve always known they were grey, but from this distance they're sort of... luminous. Like rain clouds with the sun behind them. And they look soft and unfocused, not narrowed and filled with scorn like they usually are when he looks at me.

 He licks his lips again. Without thinking, I let go of his collar and slide my hands up into his hair. He gasps softly and his eyelids flutter closed, and then mine close too as I lean into him.

 

**BAZ**

 Simon's mouth. I've spent hours- maybe even days, all told- thinking about Simon's mouth. Imagining how he'd feel and taste. I was a blind man trying to imagine the ocean. Nothing is like Simon's mouth.

 I want to lose myself in it, completely. To drown in the dual sensory assault of his hands and lips on me. In this punch-drunk delirium of having him here, where I want him, at last.

 But I can’t. There’s a metallic taste in the back of my throat, a persistent buzzing in my ears getting louder by the minute. There’s a sensation like magnetic repulsion radiating out from Simon’s sternum, keeping me from pulling him closer.

 

**SIMON**

 Baz draws back slowly, like he’s reluctant to. I think I see him wincing a little, before he smooths his features into a neutral expression. His gaze flicks down to my chest, and I feel cool fingers dip beneath my collar and tug lightly at the chain around my neck.

 "Take it off." His voice is gravel, and he won’t meet my eyes. Warning klaxons immediately sound in my head even as my hands come up to obey. For a moment I think he’s using his magic to compel me, or some kind of vampiric thrall, maybe.

 I still my hands on the chain, expecting a magickal tug against it, but there is none. Not compelled, then. As for the thrall… I honestly have no idea. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. Like I wanted it. ( _Did_ I want it?) ( _Do_ I, even now?)

 It’s all a lot to process and standing so close to him, to Baz- with his hard words and his soft lips- is making me feel disoriented. Like I might swoon in his arms. (Christ, that would be the absolute limit.) I need some air.

 I draw the cross out from inside my jumper, and when it comes into view Baz’s eyes narrow and his lip curls up. Then I release the chain and feel the medallion thump gently against my chest.

 I just shake my head at him, not trusting my voice not to quaver.  Baz doesn’t argue with me, though. Instead, I feel his fingers release my shoulders and drop away, and he stumbles backwards a few steps. He finally drags his gaze up to mine, and the expression on his face looks practically stricken.

 

**BAZ**

 Aleister fucking Crowley. I can see it in his eyes that he knows. He knows I can’t stand having his cross near me, and it’s every bit as incriminating as if he’d caught me with my fangs out. Snow’s dogged me for proof of vampirism since our fifth year; now he finally has it.

 I’m still unsteady from his magic, and my legs feel like columns of rubber, but I force myself to blunder across the room and out the door. I only make it down one flight of stairs before hopelessness descends on me like a suffocating shroud- the Catacombs are halfway across the grounds from Mummers House, and both my magic and my physical strength are sapped. I can’t walk the distance, and I certainly can’t cast **float like a butterfly** in this condition. After sharing magic with Snow three times in as many days I’m nearly as drained as the rats I leave behind in the Catacombs.

 I slump against the wall and let gravity drag me to the floor. I’m on the landing below our room, directly across from the door to what’s-his-face’s room. Snow’s pal- Garrick something or other. Provided he’s not a night owl or an early riser I really couldn’t give a fuck, because I don’t think I’ll have the energy to move again for hours. If I have the chance to move from this spot ever again.

 I imagine Snow throwing open our door and charging down the stairs with sword in hand. Finding me here, just outside the bounds of Roommate’s Anathema and powerless to defend myself. A dream come true, I’m sure. And why shouldn’t he have it, now that he’s given me what _I_ wanted most?

 A helpless, hopeless giggle bubbles up my throat but leaves my mouth as a wheeze. Even laughter is exhausting at this point. I rest my forehead against the cool stone and let my thoughts drift. It won’t be long now, a matter of hours most likely, before Simon gets word to the Mage. Before the Mage finds me and drags me off for my execution or imprisonment or whatever grisly fate befalls highborn vampires. It won’t be long. I’ll just wait here, and rest.

 

**SIMON**

 For a moment, I think I’m going to call out to him as he’s leaving, or even follow him out the door. Instead, I turn and walk to the window and throw open the sash. I stick my head out over the moat and swallow great lungfuls of air, not even caring that it’s a bit pungent.

 When I feel my ears beginning to sting with cold, I pull my head back inside and pace the room.

  _Baz kissed me._

  _Baz is a vampire. A_ confirmed _vampire._

  _Baz kissed me._

  _I could tell the Mage._

  _(That Baz is a vampire. Not that he kissed me.)_

  _I_ should _tell the Mage._

 I stop short to imagine the conversation: _“Sir, I think you should know that I have conclusive proof my roommate is a vampire. No, I didn’t actually see him feeding, but you see, when we were snogging he seemed pretty bothered by the cross I was wearing…”_

 I tear at my hair, then heave myself face down onto my mattress. Alright, so Baz is a vampire. I know that he kills rats and the occasional merwolf. But what if he’s never killed a person?

 His voice comes back to me then, ridiculing me when I cornered him in the Catacombs during our fifth year: _“You’re just going to wait for me to kill someone? You’re the worst Chosen One that’s ever been chosen.”_

 Then I recall his face as it looked just minutes ago, right before he turned to leave. He looked wounded, ashamed even. I’ve never seen Baz look ashamed of anything, ever. I know that he’s cynical and cruel- I could fill a book with all the humiliating things he’s done to me over the years- but I don’t know that he’s a devil. Maybe there was a time when I was sure he was, but that’s not the face I saw tonight.

 I tug a pillow towards me, and bury my face in it. I just need time to think. And I doubt Baz will go far, even if he’d like to- sharing magic with me wipes him out, I know. I don’t think he’ll come back and attack me either, thanks to Roommate’s Anathema, but just to be safe I bring my hand to my hip. I pull out the Sword of Mages and lay it down next to me, the hilt warm and reassuring in my hand.

 I wonder if he’ll come back tonight at all. I wonder if I want him to.

  _I just need to talk to him.... Give him a chance to explain... I owe him that much... Not because he kissed me.... Not because I want him to do it again... It’s just the decent thing to do..._


	2. I Shatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the positive feedback on chapter one! I really appreciate it.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing chapter two. I hope it's as enjoyable to read as it was to write!

  _Bang, there was you_  
_Too gold, too blue_  
_You took the truth_  
_I cried, you flew_

 _You called me mad_  
_(And I am mad_ )  
_As a hatter_  
_Some fall in love_  
_(Some fall in love)_  
_I shatter_

**BAZ**

The pain in my injured leg is what wakes me; it’s half-folded underneath me, and my knee is throbbing. Then I feel a rancorous thirst clawing at my insides, and the realization that I need to feed is all it takes to bring the previous night’s events down on me in an unpleasant deluge. Simon’s magic. His kiss. His cross. _Fuck me._

There’s a fleeting temptation to curl up and see if I can nod off again, to embrace the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness for as long as possible before my imminent doom arrives. But I’m stiff, and I’m starving, and anxiety has begun to settle over me like a layer of frigid sweat.

I struggle to my feet, weak but no longer incapacitated, and wobble over to the nearest window. The sky is a filmy greyish-blue, with clouds of pale pink gossamer just above the horizon. It seems a suitably majestic sunrise for the morning after you snog your nemesis and thereby usher in your own destruction, but I haven’t any basis for comparison.

It’s unlikely Snow has awoken yet, but going back to the room while he’s there is a risk I’m not inclined to take. I’ll have to head straight for the Catacombs, bedraggled uniform and all, and come back to shower and change clothes after he’s left for the dining hall. Snow wakes up almost obscenely early- he likes to arrive first at breakfast, in order the maximize the amount of time he can spend stuffing his face- so I won’t have to wait long.

It all feels a bit… surreal. Planning out my morning, strategizing as though any of it will ultimately make a difference. But what else is there to do, aside from climbing the ramparts and tossing myself into the moat? (I doubt the fall would kill me, and I’m not sure drowning would do the trick either. The merwolves might be able to finish me off, but what a disgraceful way to go. Gnawed to death by fucking merwolves.)

So, I suppose I might as well carry on for the time being.

 

**SIMON**

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is the Sword of Mages, its blade lying just a few centimetres from my face and reflecting the morning sunlight straight into my eyes. The second thing I notice is how I’m not covered in blood, or stab wounds, and thank magic that I didn’t have any nightmares of the thrashing, flailing variety that usually make Baz threaten to spell me to the bed with **your hands are tied**.

 _Baz._ I look over at his bed- empty, definitely not slept in. He never came back, then. What does that mean? Is he gone? Is he safe? Am I- is Watford- safe from him?

I won’t find any answers here, so I dress quickly and head down the stairs for breakfast. I don’t put my sword away, and I keep a cautious eye on my surroundings when I cross the grounds to the dining hall. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but Baz ambushed me loads of times before I ever had proof that he’s a vampire, so why let my guard down now?

I sit down across from Penny, and she eyes my sword when I clatter it down on the table next to us.

“What’s he gone and done now?” she asks, pouring me a cup of tea.

I open my mouth, and the words nearly fly off my tongue before I snap it closed again. There’s no way I can tell her everything that happened last night- it’s all too weird and embarrassing. I open my mouth a second time, (I’ll just tell her the Baz-is-a-vampire bits) then close it a second time. (How do I do that without telling her the kissing bits?) I feel a hot flush creeping up my neck, so I open my mouth again and shove three slices of dry toast in, stalling for time.

“Did you, er, want some butter with those?” She waves a butter crock at me.

 “Nah. S’good like this. Less cholesterol.” I’m not able to enunciate very clearly around all the toast (Madam Bellamy would probably faint if she heard me), but Penny has spent enough time listening to me talk with my mouth full that I’m pretty sure my point comes across.

 She sits and watches me in silence while I chew for an uncomfortably long time. Her glasses have slid down her nose, leaving nothing behind to shield me from her piercing stare. I wash the toast down with half a pot of tea.

 She clears her throat emphatically. “So. You were saying, about Baz?”

 “Who? Oh, right. Baz. Yeah. Complete wanker. Unbelievably so. That is, I s’pose it’s not really unbelievable, actually, since it’s just how he acts all the time. Predictable, ordinary, everyday wankery. That’s him, up and down. Have you seen him, by the way?”

 Her eyes have narrowed to a squint. (This isn’t working- I suck at lying to Penny.) “I have not.”

“Right. Well. I just realized I… left my wand upstairs. Better go grab it. Might need it for... Greek.” I get to my feet, stuffing scones into my pockets and hoisting up my sword. There’s still time to look for Baz in the Catacombs before classes start, if I hurry.

 As I head towards the door I hear Penny calling after me, “This conversation isn’t finished, Simon Snow!”

 

**BAZ**

 It’s a bitch of a time getting back to Mummers House after feeding. A good percentage of the student body is out and about by the time I leave the Catacombs, and I can’t allow them to see me in my current state of dishabille- especially if today is to be the grand finale of my academic career at Watford. So I have to take a circuitous route that involves sneaking out through the inner gates, skirting the edge of the Wavering Wood, and then spelling myself across the moat just north of the dormitory buildings.

 Fortunately, the corridors and stairways of Mummers House are deserted and I’m able to slip into our room undetected. The room is drafty- Snow yanked open the windows before going to bed, as is his habit, and I wasn’t here to close them this morning. Nonetheless, the familiar sight of my bed is an enticement after a night spent knotted up on a cold stone floor. I banish the thought almost as soon as it occurs; the blood I drank has put some steel back into my spine, and I have resolved to meet my fate with my head held high, not snuggled into a pillow.

 With the aid of a hot shower and a clean uniform, I almost feel like a real boy. I gather up my schoolbooks and turn to go, but my gaze seems to snag on the very mundanity of this room I’ve shared with Simon for the past seven years. I take in Simon’s side of it: his bed with its rumpled bedclothes, the loose sheets of paper covered in his careless scrawl spilling across his desk, a tie draped haphazardly over the back of his chair… is this the last time I’ll ever see any of it?

 I find myself standing in the space between our beds again, allowing myself a brief indulgence in the memory of Simon’s hands sliding into my hair, his face leaning close to mine. I can’t afford to dwell on it now, it would just leave a soppy, sentimental wreck behind where I’ve tried so hard to cobble together a scion of the House of Pitch of passable dignity. Still, it’s a comfort to know that it’s there when I need it, ready to be conjured like a flame in my palm.

 

**SIMON**

 I spend nearly an hour in the Catacombs, calling out finding spells while wandering the maze-like passages. It’s a good thing I know the Catacombs pretty well from following Baz, because I didn’t bring enough scones along for a proper breadcrumb trail (and I got hungry from all the walking.) I go to all the places I think he likes to hang out- they have the biggest concentration of dried up rat corpses- but there’s no sign of him anywhere.

 By the time I climb the stairs back up to the White Chapel, I’m grumpy and on edge. I practically have to jog to make it to Greek class on time, and when I turn into the doorway I stop so abruptly it’s like hitting an invisible wall.

 He’s there. Baz. In his usual seat near the front, as though it’s any other day.

 No, that’s not exactly right. Normally Baz would have noticed me by now and given me his standard greeting, a cold sneer. Instead he’s staring straight ahead, and his face is sort of blank, but in a way that looks like it takes concentration to hold. The purplish shadows under his eyes look almost like bruises, and he’s sitting kind of stiffly, almost hunched. Usually Baz lounges at his desk like a bored king on his throne. As I watch, Niall elbows him and leans in to say something I can’t hear. Baz just gives him a tight-lipped smile without turning his head.

 “Mr. Snow,” the Minotaur drones from the front of the classroom. “Do you plan on joining us this morning?”

 “Yes, sir,” I say automatically and cross the room towards my seat. Even when I walk in front of him, Baz keeps that creepy blank stare on his face. It’s work not to grab him by the shoulders and force him to look at me, to explain himself. _Where have you been?_ I want to shout at him. _What have you been doing?_

 Instead I take my seat and continue watching him.

 Penny’s seated across from me. She leans in my direction, and makes a quiet sound of disgust.

 “Is that a dead spider on your jacket?” she whispers.

 I brush at my shoulder irritably without taking my eyes off Baz.

 

**BAZ**

 I don’t need to turn around to know Snow’s trying to bore holes in the back of my skull with his eyes.

 When he walked into the room, it took every ounce of my control not to react. And not reacting, I realize, is a reaction in its own right- especially when taunting him is a bedrock of our relationship dynamic. Still, it would take more bravado than even I've got to poke at a hungry tiger when he's already got you cornered. Ignoring Snow simply seemed like the best way to avoid provoking him, but only a few minutes into our Greek lesson I catch a whiff of the faint smoky odor that can only mean one thing: Snow's in danger of going off.

 It's clear that he's riled up, and a safe bet that I'm the reason. I grit my teeth in frustration. At this point in my life, I've practically made a career out of fantasizing about Simon Snow. I've built up a diverse mental catalogue, it's not all sweat-dampened curls and clutching fingers and Simon chanting the letters of my name. I also replay scenes like the one playing out right now, rewriting them so I can actually reassure him the way I'd like to, with soft words and gentle touches. Recasting myself from his antagonist to his white knight. It's beyond pathetic, really, like imagining my mother coming back from the dead or finding a cure for vampirism.

 Even so, I feel him unraveling like this and I have to dig my fingernails into my palms to keep from reaching for him. We've been past the point of tenderness for some time, I think, but never so far past as right now. Now that Simon knows I'm a monster and evidently restraining himself from driving his sword through my heart in front of our entire class is taking so much effort that his magic is seeping out through his pores. No good could possibly come from reaching for him now.

 His magic is thickening in the air like miasma. I want to lay my head on my arms and succumb to the soporific effect, but I force myself to continue staring straight ahead. For once I wish I weren’t quite so advanced in Greek: the challenge of learning something new might help distract me from my internalized panic. When class finally ends I shake it off and make a hasty exit, desperate to put space between Snow and myself. My pulse stutters when I hear him call out my name, twice, and then fingers close around my wrist. I wrench violently away and quicken my pace without looking back.

 

**SIMON**

 When Baz jerks his arm from my grip, my vision clouds with a furious red haze. What the fuck is his problem? I’m trying to do the decent thing, and he won’t give me a chance to speak, or even look me in the face. I’m about to dash after him- he wouldn’t be difficult to catch, he’s limping even more than usual today- when a hand closes over my shoulder. I whirl around, and the owner jumps back, yelping in surprise. Penny.

 “What the bloody _hell_ , Simon!” She hisses indignantly. “I don’t know what’s going on with the two of you, but get a grip on yourself. You practically put our whole class in a stupor back there. The Mage already wants to send you away from Watford, and you’re giving him even more reason!”

 I look away guiltily. Penny isn’t usually so sharp with me. I wish once again that I could come clean, could ask her advice on how to handle Baz, could even get her to help me confront him. But it’s just too personal, and I know it would be wrong. I need to sort things out with him privately before I talk to anyone, even Penny or the Mage.

 I have three more classes with Baz that day, but none are a repeat of Greek class. I still watch him carefully, but Penny’s scolding remains fresh in my mind and I don’t lose control again, even when he stares through me like I’m not there. I study his face, looking for clues in his vacant expression. In the set of his jaw, or the ash grey of his eyes, or the hard lines of his mouth…

 I jerk my gaze away involuntarily, and my neck goes hot again with fresh memories of how that mouth felt pressed to mine. I force myself to instead imagine him baring his fangs, wolflike. Using them to puncture and tear and mutilate. I imagine him licking blood from his lips, but then the image goes cockeyed and I can’t stop picturing the way he licked his lips after kissing me.

 Dinner that evening is so dismal even a second helping of cottage pie barely lifts my mood. Penny is uncharacteristically quiet, and I think she’s still a bit miffed at me from earlier. I also think she’s torn between curiosity about my latest quarrel with Baz, and not wanting to get me started on a Baz-related tirade. I try to get back on her good side by asking after her parents and Micah, but her answers are short and slightly peevish- I think she can tell at least half of my attention is on watching Baz across the room. She doesn’t object when I complain of a headache and excuse myself halfway through dinner.

 

**BAZ**

 When I bid good evening to Dev and Niall and rise to leave the dining hall, I look for Snow out of the corner of my eye. I spot Bunce eating alone, and Wellbelove doing the same several tables away. No sign of Snow.

 I fed this morning, so it’s not strictly necessary that I do so again already, but draining a few rats tonight is preferable to going more than a day without and has the added benefit of giving me refuge from Snow. He didn’t approach me again after I shoved him away, and though he managed to hold his magic in check after first period, I could almost feel how he rippled with tension like a spring-loaded trap. So he’s holding himself back… but why? I spent all day waiting for the Mage and his Merry Men to kick down the classroom door and seize me, but it never came to pass. Was it because the Mage didn’t act on Snow’s information, or because Snow didn’t disclose it? The latter seems marginally more likely, but the only explanation I can think of is that Snow has decided to take care of me personally.

 Every question I ask myself seems to beget more questions, but when I slip through the White Chapel sanctuary and round the bend towards Poets Corner, I find myself face to face with an answer. An answer in the form of Simon Snow, holding a wide stance and brandishing the Sword of Mages, primed for attack. A spring-loaded trap, indeed.

 A sense of tragic inevitability engulfs me, and I can’t suppress a dry chuckle. In response, I see his eyes narrow and his grip tighten on the hilt of his blade.

 “Hello, Snow,” I thrust my hands into my pockets and try to affect nonchalance. “Why am I not remotely surprised to find you here?”

 “Then why did you come?” His voice is wary.

 “I think that’s my line.”

 “Fine.” He twitches the blade a little, impatient. “I’m here because… we need to talk.”

 “For once I don’t disagree with you. But from the look of things, what you have in mind is less a conversation than an armed interrogation.”

 He lowers the blade slightly at that, and regards it for a moment. “This is protection. I won’t use it unless you make me.”

 “Fair enough, I suppose.” I walk past him to the entrance to the Catacombs, careful to give him a wide berth. He turns on his heel as I pass, ensuring that the sword stays between us at all times.

 “Come on,” I gesture towards the entrance. “Follow me and we’ll talk.”

 “What? No.” His eyes are narrowed again with suspicion. “I’m not following you anywhere.”

 “And I’m not having this conversation here. Anyone could listen in.”

 He still looks dubious, so I relent. I withdraw my wand from my sleeve and insert it into the back pocket of my trousers. “There. I’ll walk in front, you’ll walk behind me with a sword pointing at my back, and if I reach back to hex you you’ll be the first to know. Fair?”

 I can see he’s still reluctant, but he nods anyway. “Lead the way.”

 

**SIMON**

 It feels like we walk the winding tunnels for a long time. I trail behind Baz with my sword at the ready, and he limps along a few paces ahead of me. He holds a flame out in his open palm, but I suspect it’s for my benefit- I’ve witnessed how easily he navigates our bedroom in the darkness.

 We travel in silence, except for the sound of our footsteps echoing down the empty stone halls. Neither of us speaks until we turn into a corridor that I recognize immediately. Crumbling skulls line the walls on both sides, and I remember how Baz looked reclining against them, haughty and bored and slightly drunk from the flask he kept inside his jacket.

  _“You’re just going to wait for me to kill someone? You’re the worst Chosen One that’s ever been chosen.”_

 He’s led me back here. To _Le Tombeau des Enfants._ I bring my free hand to my sword hilt and my grip tightens as I feel a spike of adrenaline.

 “What are we doing here?” I try to squash the note of panic in my voice, but when Baz turns to face me there’s a wry smile curling one side of his mouth.

 “Simon Snow,” he tilts his head towards the stone archway set into the wall directly in front of us. “I don’t believe you’ve met my mother.”

 I glance sharply at the archway and notice for the first time a small bronze placard set just above it, gleaming in the firelight from Baz’s palm.

NATASHA GRIMM-PITCH  
HEADMISTRESS  
1965 - 2002

 So this is what he’d been up when I’d confronted him during our fifth year, spoiling for a fight: visiting his mum’s grave. A wave of shame rolls through me, as though the encounter happened yesterday and not three years in the past.

 “And this,” Baz interrupts my thoughts by gesturing with his flame hand at the blank expanse of wall alongside his mother’s tomb, “would have been my final resting place.”

 “Do you mean…” my voice sounds thick and cobwebby, and I clear my throat. “...if you had been killed in the nursery attack?”

 “I mean…” he looks me in the eye and his smile broadens. Firelight catches on his eyeteeth. “If she had finished the job.”

 

**BAZ**

 I hold eye contact momentarily, waiting to see if he’ll react, then turn back to the stone arch.

 “I’m reaching for my wand, Snow. Kindly hold off on decapitation for the time being.” When I wrap my fingers around the leather handle I feel him tense behind me, but he doesn’t strike. Yet.

 I drop to my knees at the foot of the tomb. There’s a slender vase sitting on the flagstones, and the flowers it holds are withered, blossoms faded to dusty pink and ivory. I point my wand at them and mutter **“April showers,”** watching as they bloom in reverse. Foxgloves: midsummer-sweet and thoroughly toxic. A fitting tribute.

 I sit back on my heels and stare up at the placard. I need some kind of focal point, and I can’t look at Snow while I say this part. Keeping the emotions at bay is challenging enough as it is.

 “You were there. You read the account of the attack in _The Record_ , just as I did. A vampire sank its fangs into my mother’s throat, and she responded by committing suicide.” I swallow hard, and blink against the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “If she had realized I’d been Turned… she would have snatched me up and immolated the both of us.”

 “No!” Snow blurts out, and I hear him take a step towards me. “You don’t… you _can’t_ know that.”

 “But I do know. It’s one of the few things I’m sure of.” My gaze drops to the flame still dancing in my palm, and I study it in silence for several seconds. “Just as I’m sure you’ll be the end of me. Tonight, or tomorrow, or years down the line. Now that I’ve discovered I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was five, I don’t suppose it matters when.” I flex my fingers, and the flame lengthens like a snake to wind between them.

 “Baz…” He hesitates. His voice is quiet, but I can hear the underlying flint in his words. “Have you bitten anyone?”

 I let out a short laugh at that. It echoes throughout the chamber, mockingly. “Had she? No. She was bitten, she knew she would Turn, and she lit herself up without a moment’s hesitation. Permanent death was preferable to her over undeath in any state.” The words are beginning to choke me. The fire whips with dangerous speed around my fingers, flammable as sticks of kindling.

 “If I’d been here for her Visiting,” I continue, forcing the words out harshly between gritted teeth, “she would have told me as much. She wouldn’t _care_ that I hunt animals instead of people. _She_ never forgot that being a Pitch means doing your familial duty. And _my duty_ is to stop blackening the Pitch name with my continued existence and _fucking off myself.”_

 The flame extinguishes abruptly, and I fall forward onto my hands, breathing heavily. I shouldn’t have squandered my magic like that. I have so little to spare as it is.

 When Snow speaks again, his voice is right behind me. He’s kneeling now too, and his heat feels practically incandescent against the damp chill of the Catacombs. “Baz, I have to know. I can’t let you leave here unless I know you won’t hurt anyone.”

 I push myself upright again and cup both palms in front of my chest. I gently coax the fire back to life, though it’s weak this time, barely more than an ember.

 “Can anyone make such a promise?” I turn my head until I can see his face in my periphery. The shadows are so thick his expression is unreadable. “Can you?”

 The emotional intensity that coursed through me just seconds ago seems to have been snuffed out alongside the flame, leaving me depleted and subdued. I turn back to the struggling fire in my hands and speak my final piece before Snow can answer.

 “Do what you think is right, Simon. I won’t plead with you, and I won’t fight.”

 I’m a little surprised at the relief I feel, knowing my part in this ordeal is over, that there are no more choices to make. I stare into the little flame, fragile and fluttering with my every breath, and wonder, _should I have told him I love him?_

 I can hear him getting to his feet behind me, the muted clang of his blade when it makes accidental contact with the stone floor. _No, not like this. He’d never accept it as the truth._

 I also imagine kissing him one last time, but I don’t act on that impulse either. I suppose that’s the difference between quietly accepting your death and blindly charging at it like a maniac.

 His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I stiffen involuntarily. I realize I’ve stopped breathing: the only sounds in the room are the discordant staccatos of his heartbeat and mine, always parallel yet never quite in step.

 I wait for the cold sting of metal, but it’s his voice that cuts through the silence instead.

 “I swore an oath.” His voice is so quiet it’s nearly a whisper. “Our truce, remember? I’ll help you, not hurt you, until I have no other choice.”

 Snow’s fingers trail from my shoulder and I listen to the diminishing sound of his retreating footsteps until even their echoes are swallowed by the dead air of the Catacombs.

 

**SIMON**

 I don’t know how I make it out of the Catacombs. My legs seem to move of their own accord, completely disengaged from my brain, until I shove open the door of the White Chapel and stumble out into the night air. For the second evening in a row I find myself leaning against a wall, breathing in gulps like I’ve never tasted fresh air before. (It’s true in a way; after the stale stillness of the Catacombs, the air outdoors almost hums with vitality.)

 I take my time walking back to Mummers House, climbing the stairs up to our tower room. With a mechanical sort of detachment I shower, towel myself dry, and pull on a pair of pyjama bottoms. I slide beneath the covers of my bed and lay back against my pillow, but even with my eyes closed, surrounded by the dark and still and quiet, my pulse beats frenetically.

 It doesn’t settle for a long while, until I hear the door open softly. I keep my eyes shut, listening to the rustle of fabric as he undresses for bed, the familiarity of his presence as he moves through the dark. Something warm and melting unfolds in my chest, and I’m slightly baffled to realize I’m _comforted_ by his nearness. Since when?

 My breath hitches at the sound of bare feet padding between our beds, and he pauses.

 “I know you’re awake.”

 My eyelids spring open. I don’t think to deny it, just push myself up on one elbow as he crouches down alongside me. We’re eye to eye, but the soft glow of moonlight coming in through the window doesn’t illuminate much aside from the pallor of his skin, and the dark luster of his hair and eyes. The rest of his features are lost in shadow.

 “I just want you to know that this doesn’t change anything.” His tone is carefully measured. “You and I are still on opposing sides, truce or no. This isn’t the beginning of some fateful chain of events where we take turns saving one another’s lives and wind up unlikely comrades in the end. We’re not friends, now or ever.” He draws in a breath, sounding less measured now. Mildly agitated, even. “However, I feel I would be... remiss in failing to acknowledge that I… that we--”

 I frown. Tripping over words is definitely un-Baz-like.

 “Oh, _fuck this,”_ he mutters. He grabs my face in both hands and kisses me hard on the mouth.

 There’s no time to react. His lips are there, cool and pliant and insisting, and then gone just as suddenly. I hear a creak and a rustle as he climbs into bed, and I let myself fall onto my back as my hand comes up to finger my own lips dazedly.

 

**BAZ**

 Perhaps there’s something to be said for the occasional maniacal death charge, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to Rainbow Rowell.
> 
> Song lyrics are © Stephin Merritt/The Magnetic Fields.


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